


Here and There

by WildlingHero



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11392242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildlingHero/pseuds/WildlingHero
Summary: He had no idea what prompted him to do it. It was crumbling and crooked and clearly no one had lived there for years. But when Bolson had told him it was set to be demolished, he had felt a stab of pain, a flash of heartache. He didn’t know why but he couldn’t help but feel like saving it was incredibly important to him.Based on the idea that the house in Hateno was Link's before the calamity. This chapter is based on something Arin from Game Grumps said during their playthrough, about Link’s house in Hateno being implied that it used to be his house 100 years ago. There’s something that Karson says when you first speak to him about the house that could be interpreted to imply it but I thought about it a lot.





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> Botw drabble collection written when and as I think of them while I play through botw again. I know I should be writing Wayward, and I will now that college has finished, but I hit a bit of a block with it so I’ll churn these out while I’m working around it.

The first day Link awoke in his new bed, sheets still smelling like the dye used to color them and pine filling the air around the new timber frame, it settled over him like a layer of dust over an unused surface. He’d been pinned down by it to begin with, the heavy feeling of nostalgia sitting on his chest and making breathing feel like hard work. As it eventually lifted, he crept his way from the bed across the wooden boards, pausing as he went to automatically avoid a certain floorboard. Forcing himself to step on it, he flinched when it creaked loudly. Shrugging it off, he was halfway down the stairs when it hit him, forcing the air from his lungs as though he’d been sucker punched in the gut. 

The bed had faced a different way. Headboard against the long wall with the small window, and a small bedside table separating it from the wall his headboard rested against now. A small shelf above his bed with some books and a pictograph of his mother, taken before she had died. Another bed. Facing the same way as his. He remembered being young and looking over to see his parents asleep, and then later his father sleeping alone, then later still the wooden screen his father built the year his voice broke, to give his son some privacy. 

Link remembered that creaky floorboard. He remembered hearing it as a child as he was carried up to bed by his father after having fallen asleep in his mother’s arms in the comfortable chairs under the stairs as his father told him stories of knights and princesses. He remembered hearing it when his parents came up to bed, his father always whispering a curse, even ten years later, as he forgot to avoid it in case it woke Link up. He remembered freezing whenever he stepped on it in the dark, looking to see if he’d woken his parents while he snuck downstairs for water, then always jumping when his mother would appear to ruffle his hair and kiss his forehead, making sure her baby boy was alright before leading him back up to bed. She remembered to avoid the floorboard as often as his father forgot.

He remembered avoiding it as a young teenager, peeking round the screen to see if his father was asleep yet, and then sneaking past the foot of his bed, lightly sidestepping that board so as to not alert his father to his nighttime wanderings. He would stealth downstairs, sticking to the edge nearest the wall to prevent more creaks, and steal food from the shelves by the door. Bread mostly, things he could eat without leaving a trace, and two apples for his father's horse. The mare couldn’t give him away if her mouth was full of fruit. He would take his boots outside before putting them on so they didn't thump on the wooden floor and he would squeeze through the front door. 

Giving the mare one of the apples where she stabled next to the house, he would pick one of two destinations. He would either cross the grass to the edge of the hill and sit overlooking the valley, watching the way the moon would reflect off the waters of Necluda as he thought about his father, about the change in him since his mother’s passing, how he would teach Link how to use various weapons in the small area of land behind him whenever he returned from the castle where he had taken a knighthood, or how they would move to Castle Town when Link became old enough to join the army and follow in his footsteps to become a knight. 

Or, he would walk round the back of the small pond under the young tree and climb the steep path of Ebon Mountain and sit on the shores of the unusually shaped ponds at the top and fondly remember his mother, how she would lead him up there sometimes and tell him stories of a pond where people would meet and find their true love, how she would sit and sing songs to him about heroes and goddesses, and how she would keep a jar of tea on the shelf in the kitchen which was reserved for the occasional despondent traveller seen trudging down from the mountain weeping about ponds and mountains, yet leaving far more hopefully than they’d arrived after a cup of her tea and an encouraging talk.

Then he would give the other apple to the waiting mare, remove his boots and steal back up the stairs, again sidestepping that particular floorboard and crawling back into his bed. His yawning at the breakfast table the next day would be put down to the cause behind his slow but steady growth spurts and increasingly ravenous appetite.

In the present, where he sits on the stairs even though he was sure he was standing, one arm wrapped around the wooden post supporting the upper floor and the other wrapped around his knees while the cold sweat runs down his neck and his panting drowns out the morning birdsong, his eyes flicker around the living area, flashes of his previous life blurring his current surroundings. He and his mother sitting at the table while his father balances three plates on his arms and almost dropping one but catching it at the last second. His mother lifting him to sit on the table and kissing his scraped knee better while he rubs at his tearstained face and hiccups. His father sitting at the table staring at his half drunk ale and scrubbing his face with his hands, his expression one of a man who doubts he will ever be happy again. Link running to hug his father around the waist and burying his face in the older man’s chest after he dumps his bag on the ground, his newly acquired knights sword and shield shining in the lantern light. 

Eventually the haze of images burns away and the air starts to come easier. Standing shakily Link descended the last few stairs, making his way slowly to the table and falling heavily into one of the chairs. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, hiding his face in his hands. His chest ached with all the feelings he remembered after his mother’s passing, the intense longing for people whom he loved but knew he was never going to be able to see again, events that could have happened but didn't have the chance to come to pass. 

But at least he knew now why he’d had to save this crumbling house from Hudson’s hammer. It was a part of him, of his past. All of his firsts had been here. The happiest moments of his life had been in this house, along with some of the saddest. But he had loved and been loved here and that was what mattered. 

He vaguely realised his position resembled that of his father's when he had come home and learned his mother had eventually succumbed to her sickness, and he wondered if he would see his father in himself more and more as he continued to grow and mature. Would his father be proud of him? When had his father actually died? At the time of the calamity, Link hadn’t known the whereabouts of his father, he could have been here at home waiting for Link’s return. The guardians hadn’t managed to get through Fort Hateno, had he survived and learned of his son’s passing while protecting the princess? How had he handled losing the only family he had left? Had they told him of the shrine of resurrection? Had he waited for Link to awaken? 

Had he been at the Citadel? He would have perished along with the other soldiers eventually. Link’s heart gave a particularly painful pang. What if he’d been at the castle? Or in the town? Obliterated when the calamity struck with absolutely no warning, no chance. 

Link felt the tears but didn't move to wipe them away, instead letting them hit the wood of the table. This place had seen Link in his purest and rawest forms and he wasn’t about to start hiding now. Sniffing, he lifted his head to look around his home once more. 

Home.

He was lucky, he mused. At least, after everything that had happened, after all these years, Link had managed to find his way home.


	2. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link remembers more of his family.

The storm had been predicted. 

He’d ignored the prediction, as predicted.

Link stumbled under the weight of his wet hylian tunic, feeling the water sloshing around in his boots where he’d waded through the flooding paths and overflowing creeks of the Faron rainforest, shaking with the sudden chill the storm brought despite the humidity dragging at his breaths. 

He squinted from under his hood looking for a place that could offer him any semblance of shelter and decided an overhang in the rock face was probably the best he was going to come up with at this point, he’d be lucky if every nook and crevice wasn’t swarming with Lizalfos, and he unceremoniously planted himself down on the ground and pushed his hood back with a cloudy exhale of air. Keeping a careful lookout he began to peel off his wet clothes, wringing them out before laying them flat, hoping they would dry even though the very air itself was wet. He needed a fire, but the surrounding native trees of the rainforest were saturated with water even on a dry day. No joy there then. 

Link reached for his pouch, searching elbow deep in it for the bundle of wood he hoped he remembered stashing for situations like this, face scrunched as his hand touched everything he didn’t need, and then clearing when he found the burlap sack he’d stuffed the clothing he’d salvaged and worn upon awakening from the shrine of resurrection into. Pulling it out, he decided dry clothes wouldn’t go amiss while he waited for his tunic and hood to dry, or for the rain to let up enough for him to make a break for the nearest settlement or stable. 

Laying the old neutral coloured clothing on the ground he resumed looking for the wood he knew he’d put aside, edges of his mouth lifting despite the splinter he felt embedding itself into his skin when his knuckles scraped it. He searched next for the flint and had phenomenally more luck in finding it that than he had the wood. Striking it with his travellers sword, he waited for the fire to warm and turned to the clothing, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickle of gooseflesh. 

He lifted the brown trousers up and let them unfurl, creased from where they’d been folded, and eyed a line of tiny neat stitches over the faded knee. So they’d been repaired before, whoever owned them before Link having loved them enough to keep them even after they’d been damaged. Well he wasn’t going to let warm dry clothing go to waste. Standing, having to hunch slightly to avoid hitting his head on the overhang, he pulled them on. He felt the ward against the chill immediately, despite the draft around his ankles and silently thanked whoever decided to leave them for him. The faded knees were an inch or so higher than his actual knees and he subconsciously brushed at them as though this would bring some colour back into them. 

Next he shook out the shirt. Linen and plainly dyed, it also showed signs of having been loved, the edges fraying and what looked to be a faint grass stain on the elbow. Well it would do. Pulling it over his head as he sat down he shifted close to the fire, lifting his hands to warm them and grinning at how the shirt sleeves didn’t even reach halfway to his wrists. Looking down his grin widened when he saw a thin band of stomach showing under the hem above his trousers. Whoever had owned these had been short, he mused. 

He turned his outstretched arm to take a closer look at the previously scrubbed at stain on his elbow when he caught the scent of the material. Musty with age for the most part, but there was something else, something underneath the time and wait, something familiar. He hesitated before lowering his face to his arm and breathing it in. 

Hateno.

It smelt like Hateno. The unmistakeable smell of home. Of his house. He stared nonplussed at the fabric for a few moments. Perhaps the smell had clung to it from the last time he stayed there? Although he didn’t remember his other clothes smelling that way. Shrugging it off he reached for his pouch again where it lay against his knee. His hand hovered over the stitches. He traced a finger over them, feeling the slight raise in texture. They’d done a good job at repairing them, whoever had saved them. Perhaps the owner? Maybe a member of their family? Like their…

His mother had been good at sewing. He stared blankly at the fire as he recalled the image of her sitting in one of the comfy chairs under the stairs, darning whatever sorry item of clothing had fallen victim to Link and his father’s mischief. 

But she’d have been dead by the time he’d grown big enough to wear these clothes. He shook his head. These didn’t belong to him. Impa, or more likely Purah would have procured and left them for him, that would explain the Hateno smell on them. There. That solved it. His finger continued to trace the line of stitches and a small voice in the back of his mind asked ‘then why do they feel so familiar still?’

Link heaved a sigh and forced himself to stop tracing, pulling his knee up and resting his chin on it while he wrapped his arms around himself. The trousers hiked up with his movement and he felt the rougher thread sit against his lower thigh. He shifted the way he leant on his knee so as to avoid a scar he had there, a long, thick white divet, slashed almost diagonally across his knee. He couldn’t remember if it was from fighting the Calamity or before-

Yes he could. 

He got a flash of an image, a snapshot, much like he did back in his house in Hateno, his father kneeling on the wet and muddy path, using his sleeve to try and wipe the grit and dirt away without hurting him to get a good look at what he’d done.

What had he done? 

He scrunched his eyes closed, fingers tracing over the scar in his skin underneath rather than the scar in the fabric. It had been raining, the sky a miserable grey, they were soaked through. Why? What had been so important that they were out in such a downpour? He listened to the rain falling around him and tried to place it at the time. He tried to recall the image of his father kneeling in front of him. He must have been sat on the ground too. If his knee was bleeding had he tripped? Fell?

Fell! He’d fallen off his father’s horse! Suddenly it became as crystal. He’d been training. His father had been teaching him to ride and shoot a bow simultaneously. There was a track, just down from Hateno, a loop of path around a copse of trees, and wooden, painted targets had been erected, he wasn’t sure by whom. His father had been teaching him...because he was going to join the army. He was going to become a trainee, just like his father had been, and he’d wanted to impress. 

He’d naturally excelled at archery, and he could ride well, but putting them together had led to some accidents at first. This particular time he’d leant too far out of the saddle in an effort to hit a target and lost his footing in the stirrup with the rain slicking his boots. He’d landed hard on his knee and tore his trousers as the gravel tore up his skin and stained the elbow of his shirt a bright green. He’d rolled onto his back and gingerly sat up, taking stock of himself to make sure there were no broken bones. His father (Goddesses he wished he could remember his name!) had come running over, skidding on his knees in the mud as he’d reached Link, asking if he was alright, telling him not to move, and after he’d seen the gash in Link’s knee, telling him it was alright to cry, if he wanted. Link had shaken his head furiously even as he’d released an involuntary sob as his father pressed his sleeve to his wound. It had stung like hell. 

He’d hissed and bit back any further sounds as his father gently wiped at it, trying to clean away the dirt and blood to see the extend of the wound, before declaring he wouldn’t lose the leg with a small grin on the corners of his mouth. He’d helped him to his feet, clicking his tongue at his mare to follow them back to the house, and helped a limping Link climb the hill. He’d sat him on the table like his mother used to do when she tended to his scraped knees as a child, though his most recent scrape would have had her in tears. She’d have hugged him and sniffed and stroked his hair and face, calling him her ‘bravest boy’. 

His father had told him to strip to his shorts and, after getting them both some dry clothing from the upper floor, used a clear, strong smelling spirit soaked into a soft, off-white, linen cloth to rub away the grime and blood. If Link had thought the sleeve was bad, it had been nothing like what he’d experienced sitting on the dining table, gripping the edges with whitened knuckles, toes curling and teeth grit so hard he had been sure he’d heard one of them crack. 

After dressing his wound and helping Link climb the stairs to his bed, his father had told him to rest while he sorted out their clothes. Link had protested the throwing away of his ruined shirt and trousers, they had been made by his mother years before, he remembered now, with the promise he’d grow into them and she’d never broken a promise to him. But his father had pointed out that neither of them knew how to repair them, so they had to go. That had been the last time he saw them. 

So how did he come to have them now? Who had repaired them? When had they repaired them? His fingers moved back to the line of stitching, as though committing the feel of them to memory would help him recognise the handywork. 

He hadn’t been wearing these when he died. When he fought against the Calamity. He hadn’t recalled his death yet, and though it probably should have, it didn't concern him all that much. He had been doing his duty and protecting the princess as best he could against the onslaught of guardians and monsters set on bringing them down. 

Then where had these garments come from? As far as he had known they’d been thrown away, ripped up and used for rags and scraps. Had his father secretly had them repaired as a surprise for him? Surely he would have known someone capable of fixing them for him. Then how did they come to be the first items of clothing he found in the shrine of resurrection one hundred years later?

Had Purah or Impa sent for them? Had they been to his house at some point during his slumber? If his father had died along with the rest of his regiment during the Calamity, either in Castle Town or the Akkala Citadel, had they stole into his house and searched for something for him to wear when he finally woke up and stumbled on this potential gift from his father?

If his father had survived the initial Calamity, had they told him what had happened to Link? That his son had died? Had they asked for clothing and received these? What reason did they give for wanting some clothes, did they tell him of the shrine of resurrection or did they tell him it was for a burial? No. If Link was to be buried his father would have been there, so they would have informed him of Link’s stasis.

In that case, had his father come with them? Had his father seen his body, beaten and bloody and deathly still? Had his injuries began to heal by then, or had he still been raw and torn open? Link tried to imagine how he would have reacted. Would he have cried? Had he been proud that his son had stood his ground and gave his life for the princess like he’d vowed, or was he ashamed that he hadn’t beaten the Calamity? The sword had chosen him after all, shouldn’t he have won? 

He didn’t feel like he had died. It felt like he was trying to remember the tale of a stranger. The memories he’d managed to gather from the locations on the sheikah slate didn’t feel like his either. It was like he was party to them, but not directly involved in them, like he was watching someone else from the sidelines. 

Link heaved another deep sigh, familiar ache of loss and longing settling behind his sternum. He absentmindedly touched a scar on his chest through his shirt that no doubt contributed to his death. He regretted not writing to his father as much as he should have. He regretted shutting him out, like he had everyone else. So much lost time, even after all the time they did have, there was still so much lost. 

He stretched his arms and legs out toward the fire again, warming his hands and bare feet and marveling at his growth. He must have grown a good few inches, had it happened while he slept? It must have. He’d fallen from his father’s horse a mere two years before he’d joined the army and impressed his commanding officers so much that he’d been awarded the position of the princess’s appointed knight, and he’d died a few months after that. He’d have noticed if he’d grown so much in that short a time. No he must have continued to grow while in slumber. 

Would he grow anymore? His father (what was his name?) had been a tall man, would he grow to be as tall as him? He’d always seemed so big to Link, so giant, but then he’d always considered himself to be short. Not that it mattered. He’d been able to best the biggest brute in the barracks without breaking a sweat. The sword chose him. Size meant nothing.

It was quiet. Blinking his eyes tight and clearing the cloudiness that came with being lost in his own head, he looked out from under the overhang, noting how everything glistened with the rain that had finally stopped falling in the weak rays of new sun. It would start warming up again soon. Reaching over to touch his tunic sprawled out on the rocky floor he decided it was dry enough to put on. The last thing he needed was to run into some monster and be unprotected. Removing his old clothing, he reverently folded them up and carefully replaced them in the burlap sack and then his pouch. Plus, he thought to himself, he couldn’t bare to lose them a second time. 

Kicking dirt onto the flames to douse the fire, Link did another once over the little shelter he’d found for himself, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Time to move on. He poked at the sheikah slate, tapping and flicking until he found his map and searched for a stable near his location. Finding one, he began trudging in the direction of the sun’s shadows, thinking idly about what food he might find along the way when it came to him, the thought as explosive as though he had been struck by lightning. 

Dara. 

His father’s name had been Dara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like writing about Link's family, most fics I read about Link's dad make him out to be mean or overbearing, so I wanted him to have a happy family life (for the most part) since he only usually gets suffering, poor boy.
> 
> Leave me something nice if you liked it :)


	3. Frog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link makes a friend
> 
> Kind of

It was raining again. It always seemed to be raining these days, perhaps it was the time of year Link mused as he rode slowly into Kakariko village. Maple shook out her mane and snorted as he guided her with his knees, his hands occupied with a small knife and an apple. He was looking forward to sleeping in a warm dry bed in the inn. He had half a mind to invest in some of the traditional sheikah garb to protect against the rain, he was getting sick of being near constantly damp.

He was momentarily distracted from his thoughts by a blue heron taking off just ahead, clearly disturbed by the thudding of Maple’s hooves.He watched the droplets of water fall from the bird's feet as it lofted into the air and spied the small pool it must have been wading in, shallow and probably created by the frequent rainfall with a lone rock sitting slightly off center. He had almost passed the pool before guiding Maple to a stop. The happy tones of Hestu played in his mind and he shoved the half eaten apple into his mouth, gripping it with his teeth and shoving the knife into his boot. He dismounted and offered the rest of the apple to Maple, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand then wiping his hands off on his trousers, he approached the rock. The children of the forest always hid in places that seemed both ordinary- mundane enough that the average traveler wouldn’t think to stop and investigate- and out of the ordinary- lone trees, rocks at the tops of mountains and groups of flowers.

Link hitched his trousers up and widened his stance, bending to heft the rock over his head. He braced himself for the cloud and fanfare that usually accompanied the appearance of the little creatures remembering how he dropped the rock he’d lifted on the poor Korok the first time he found one. Instead he got a low croak.

Link stared at the green and red amphibian. The frog stared back. Three full breaths passed before Link’s brain shouted _CATCH IT_ at him and he dropped the rock behind him at the same time as the frog made a break for it. He made a grab for the little fleeing frog with both hands, but it was fast. He missed as it hopped ahead of him, skidding on his feet in the sodden grass as he followed it. He missed again and again, the frog zigzagging down the narrow passage to Kakariko, he slipped and slid as he tried desperately to catch it. He had no idea why it was so urgent, but his brain just screamed at him not to let it get away, he _had_ to catch it, it _meant something_.

After almost running headfirst into the cliff walling in the path, he made a last ditch attempt to pin down the fleeing frog and threw himself forward, sliding and skidding on his belly with arms outstretched. He came to a stop just as his fingers closed around the the wet, vaguely slimy little body. He panted, lying on his front in the mud, rain pelting his hood with a struggling hot-footed frog in his grasp.

Link slowly pushed himself up, using his knees and elbows to lever himself upright and sitting back on the waterlogged ground, his legs splayed out in front of him. He stared at the lamp-like eyes of the little amphibian, still squirming and trying to escape while uttering low sorrowful croaks. 

Why? Why did he need to catch it? What was so important about a little frog? Had someone asked him to catch one? He racked his brain and couldn’t come up with anything. No, so why? 

At this point, he’d figured out that memories from his life before the calamity were returning to him, triggered by events or places, unprompted by the sheikah slate. Saving his old house in Hateno, wearing his old clothes that he’d outgrown. It would hit him eventually, the reason buried somewhere in his brain. So he sat and waited. 

And waited.

He adjusted his grip on the squirming amphibian several times. He tried to ignore the rain water seeping through his clothes, the chills and shivers, the mud splattered all over him. He sincerely hoped another traveler wasn’t going to come by and see him, sat in the mud in the middle of the road, soaked to the skin and holding a struggling frog with a look of utmost frustration upon his face. 

He waited longer still, but the longer he stared at it the quicker the little nagging feeling trickled away, like the rain down the stone walls. 

The frog had stopped struggling. Link heaved a sigh.

“What? What do you mean?” The frog blinked its large yellows eyes and gave a miserable croak. “Yeah. Me too buddy.” He gently put the frog down, watching it hop away with a furious speed. He stayed sat in the road for a few more minutes, staring sullenly at the place where the frog had disappeared from view, until Maple came up beside him and nosed at his face under his hood. Getting up, he lead her the rest of the way to Kakariko.

He gave half hearted, sheepish excuses for the state of his clothing when Paya spotted him, saying he’d taken a fall from his horse. Well it had happened once, he thought, thinking back to the scar across his knee. 

\---

It was a few days later when he finally understood the meaning of the frog. Kneeling in the grass and staring at, although not really seeing, the flowers surrounding him. She’d found one here. Under this tree. 

Shuffling around on their knees like children, catching frogs and playing with flowers. That was the happiest he had ever seen her. She had been so excited, her hair shining gold with the sun, her laugh so warm when the little creature had hopped over his shoulder and away as fast as its legs could carry it before he could even begin to explain that he had no desire to lick the frog. 

The breeze lifted and the long grass and unchecked wild flowers danced, his vision snagging on a particularly bright one, white and blue and beautiful. He wiped at his face with the heel of his hand as he felt something warm slide down over his cheek and wondered vaguely if it was raining again, even as he squinted against the sun as he turned his face to the clear blue sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for the Yiga clan, but mostly Olli because frog


	4. Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link has a frighten

It was happening again. Something in his brain, buried under years of sleep fog and the current daily stresses, fighting to get out. It hit him at seemingly random times at first but after a while he had managed to narrow down and work out roughly when it might catch him. Heavy nostalgia that made his teeth ache and chest tight. 

Sometimes he’d get it during the day, while making his way around Hyrule, completing various tasks and favors, exploring places he couldn’t remember ever being to before (but then that was nothing new, there was a lot he couldn’t remember from before). Sometimes it would creep up on him at night and swamp him not unlike the clouds of Keese that patrolled Hyrule’s skies. But the one constant to this repeated feeling, the one thing that seemed to bring on the aches and pains of something long passed, was a horse. The smell of hay and beast, the breeze trapped in the hair and the smoke from stable fires. The heat against his back as he took a moment to dismount and survey his surroundings and the greeting whinny he received when he whistled for his steed out in the plains and forests.

After losing Maple to a mounted bokoblin assault and spending a few days mourning her loss, he had decided he needed to track down a new horse and had found himself a beautiful chestnut mare that he had managed to mount and tame somewhere near Taobab Grassland, he had named her Pumpkin after a particularly nice pie he’d eaten at the closest stable the day before he’d caught her. She had a wild temperament but had grown very keen on him very quickly, at least while he had a constant supply of apples. His heart pounded in time to her hooves as they flew through the fields and forests as one. He loved the feeling of flying as she galloped across the plains and jumped the fences left behind from settlements long gone to ruin.

But sometimes, when the constant comforting thud of her hooves allowed his mind to wander, he would get the nagging, almost but not quite painful pulling behind his sternum. The scratching on the inside of his skull that told him he was trying to remember something. That something long buried was digging its way up. He’d figured out by now that he couldn’t force it like he’d tried to with the frog, that he just had to let it come when it was ready and the only thing he could do was try to prepare for it when it did.

It didn’t feel like the others at first. It came back as familiar feelings instead of flashes of images, thoughts he felt like he’d had before and was just repeating them to himself, like echoes. He managed to gather that he must have enjoyed riding back then as much as he did now. The way he craved the speed, the wind whipping his hair back from his face, the feel of his horse beneath him racing. He loved it. 

He had a vague awareness of sharing that love with someone. That he used to go riding with someone. At first he thought it must have been his father again. His father had a horse that he remembered learning to ride on, learning mounted combat on. But even though the memory of his father was beginning to feel familiar to him, this person didn’t feel like him. His mother perhaps then? This gave him little lines of excitement. After he’d begun to remember his father, he had desperately wanted to remember his mother. To make the memories of his family complete. But something told him that it wasn’t her, and he tried to swallow the disappointment every time he felt this.

It wasn’t until after he’d been tasked with finding the white stallion of Safula Hill that he understood who this person, this familiar yet not familiar enough shape, this presence that he was remembering was. 

Toffa, an old man at Outskirts Stable had asked him to find the stallion, claiming it to be a descendant of the royal steed ridden by the princess. Link couldn’t have cared less about whether or not the claims were true, but he hadn’t yet been able to refuse a request. It would land him in trouble one day he had mused as he boarded Pumpkin at the stable (and doing his best to ignore the horse’s accusing gaze on his back as he left her there) and made his way to Safula Hill, across the bridge and up the grassy banks.

The stallion hadn’t been hard to spot, bright white coat gleaming in the sun, standing out starkly against the green and blue of a sunny day in Hyrule. Link had had to admit, the stallion had certainly looked the part of a royal steed. It had given him a run for his rupees too, being unseated several times before he’d managed to soothe the beast. He had ridden proudly into the stable roughly an hour later, albeit heavily grass stained and bruised (again trying to ignore Pumpkin’s snorts of betrayal) and had faltered when the stable owner had asked what name he’d given the stallion. He’d bitten back the name that had slipped out when thrown from the beast’s back on the hill and settled for something he’d thought was innocent and charming. It also happened to be the only white food he could think of at the time.

Now fully tacked and moving at a brisk clip back up Safula Hill, Link slowed Sugar to a walk. He tossed his head and snorted but Link refused to be bullied and pulled firmly on the reins. He’d spotted the ruins on the top of the hill earlier that day when sneaking around looking for the stallion, and decided to come back and investigate. 

He was met with the rearing statue of a horse as glorious as the one he rode, although moss had begun to cling to its belly. He dismounted and tied Sugar to one of the rusting metal hitching posts, not yet trusting him not to bolt the second Link was far enough away, and moved around the front of the statue, standing on the stone planked platform carved to look like wood and looking out over Hyrule. The ruined castle swarmed with malice drew his eye but he tried to avoid it, instead looking out over his right toward the Dueling Peaks and…

Mount Lanayru. 

The air left his lungs in a sharp blast and he buckled, doubling over as he heard her voice, thanking him for his advice. Her vaguely awkward rambling, trying to be friendly after weeks of harsh words. Her insecurities and doubts laid bare before him, written on her face, in the way she held herself. Her form haloed by the rising sun and her hair reflecting gold.

When his vision gradually cleared, he realised he was on his knees. His breathing coming in quick, painful gasps at first, slowing and becoming easier as he accepted his memory, added it to his inventory, allowed it to be a part of him once again. The light clinking of metal behind him made him turn, a warrior's knee jerk reaction, but relaxed when he saw Sugar pulling at the rope, trying to get closer to the water at the base of the stone horse. 

Link stood and brushed himself off, taking a deep inhalation of the air always so much crisper the higher up he went. Untying the lead and allowing Sugar to take a drink he took one last look at what was once Sanadin Park. Had they come here often? What had they been planning for the rest of that day? They must have left so early to be this distance from the castle by the time the sun was rising. 

The sun was behind them now, having begun its descent around the time Link had left the stable. It caught in the gold accents of the gear Toffa had given him as reward for showing him the horse. Link had hesitated to take it, perhaps some buried recognition deeming him unworthy of sporting the royal crest (it wasn’t his to wear), or simply because it was too flashy to be riding around Hyrule in purple and tarnished gold.

It had suited her though. She wore it with pride. She had once said that despite her frustrations and failures, she was never sorry to be the person she was. She never regretted being born a princess. She had the ability and power to help the most people from the position she had obtained since birth and that was what she wanted to do more than anything, in any way that she could. Help people. Fix things. Her father had disagreed with her methods however. She would often come away from meetings with him particularly dispirited and almost defeated. And Link had vowed after that that if anyone made her feel inadequate, he’d make them very sorry.

Inadequacy was a feeling he was intimately familiar with however. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew with such accuracy the feelings displayed on her face but he did. Even now, a century later, every time he found himself reliving parts of his past, it always came with a heavy dose of unworthiness, sometimes slight and hidden in shaking or hesitancy of his movements, sometimes right at the forefront of his very being. He didn’t yet understand why, but he understood that riding at breakneck speeds through Hyrule helped him to forget it. Nothing could touch him when he was flying so high and so fast. Nothing would dare.

Deciding that a good run would help dispel the sudden feeling of vulnerability budding in his chest, Link decided to test Sugar’s limits and speed. Mounting up, Link led him away from the park, down toward Nima Plain and beyond that, the rickety wooden Jeddo bridge. May as well test the stallions nerve too. He kicked his heels and Sugar took off with an indignant and impatient snort, as though he’d been waiting for Link to let him blow off some steam all this time.

Link felt a grin spread on his face as he leant down close to Sugar’s neck. He was fast, and he charged with a purpose. Link could get used to this. In fact…

He was used to this. He’d done this before, on this very plain. With a horse as white and as strong and as fast. Her horse. She had complained about how he didn’t behave, that he had been gifted to her by her father but she didn’t like him. Or rather, she felt he didn’t like her. He bullied her. Refused to do as he was told. She disliked riding as a result. Link had suppressed a laugh in the face of their new friendship, not wanting to make her feel like he was poking fun. She had turned to him with a look on her face almost like a pout.   
He had offered to ride the stallion while she rode his gentler mare and she had accepted, perhaps in an effort to prove to him she was being truthful. To prove the stallion was a handful. But had been dismayed when Link had managed to get the difficult animal to behave. He had explained that he had grown up with a horse always at his house. That he just took to them very well. She had been put out. 

That was when he had offered her the advice. And she had listened with a studious fervor, always hungry to learn something. She had watched him as he showed her how to approach the horse in a way that was non threatening, how to be firm but kind, how to treat him when he had done something good but correct him when he hadn’t. The change in her had been dramatic. Unsure at first but as she heeded his words and actions and they spent a day on Nima Plains getting properly acquainted, by the end of it, she was asking to go riding again the following day. Her smile had been radiant. The sun crowning her as it reflected in her hair and made her eyes appear greener and jewel bright. 

That was it? He asked himself. That was all he was getting from this one? His other memories had been startling in their clarity and detail. This was...insufficient. He swallowed the disappointment as Sugar’s hooves hit the wood of the bridge with no change in speed and he was almost halfway across when a sound made him yank hard on the reins. Sugar squealed and reared, Link clinging on and turning his head wildly, searching for the source. 

It had sounded like a high pitched scream. Sharp terror echoing off the sheer stone walls and ending in a sudden stop. He battled with Sugar on the narrow bridge, as again the stallion tried to bully him while he was distracted, looking over the sides of the bridge for any sign that someone had fallen. He looked to either side of the bridge and his breathing began to slow as he saw no one. 

Just as he was about to wrangle Sugar into a walk, a long low creak proceeded the horse pitching forward violently and screaming, three hooves scrabbling desperately as the fourth plunged through the broken plank. Link had allowed himself to roll forward over the horse’s neck and came up on his feet on the bridge, quickly assessing what had happened and what needed to be done. He surged forward and grabbed the bridle, trying to yank the horse over onto his side away from the hole formed from rotten wood and years of decay. Sugar fought against him, tossing his head and squealing, high, loud and scared. He was going to attract all manner of monsters to their location, the sun having set moments ago. 

Link moved against the horse’s neck and chest, reaching around his other side for the saddle horn, trying to get as much leverage over Sugar as possible while trying to keep away from the fragile damaged wood. Link hauled just as Sugar managed to get his front leg under himself and they successfully managed to get him back on four legs. Link soothed desperately as he skittered, cooing and stroking the stallion’s mane, wrapping a handful of the blonde hair around his fist and holding tight, rubbing circles over Sugar’s neck to try and avoid a dangerous situation should the horse decide to bolt. 

Sugar snorted and huffed, sides heaving and the whites of his eyes visible even as he stood and allowed Link to comfort him. “Come. Come on, boy.” Link whispered as he slowly reached for the bridle with his left hand, leaving his right hand wrapped in the horse’s mane, coaxing him into movement and away from the danger of the dilapidated bridge. They heaved a sigh as one as their feet crossed from wooden planks to dirt road, solid and stable. Link looked back over his shoulder at the hole in the bridge, and held a deep breath for a few moments before puffing it out in a sharp blast. 

The sudden releasing of clenched muscles brought on by the fear for another’s safety felt much deeper than it was. He’d done it before several times, but the smell of horse filling his nostrils and the feel of hair around his fist brought him back to that day. That second day of riding.

He hadn’t been able to refuse her, with how excited and eager she was about riding. Even though it had rained throughout the night and the clouds remained grey and threatening for their journey back to the plains. She had taken to her stallion much faster, heeding Link’s words and forming a connection with her mount. He should have known the breaking skies and light rains were a sign for things to go wrong. She had been building her confidence with the stallion’s speed, running the lengths of Nima Plains, racing Link and his mare to and from Jeddo bridge. 

She had been winning, urging her stallion to new speeds, the ground was wet and slippery and she had been looking over her shoulder, calculating her lead when her horse careened onto the bridge, hooves slipping over the wooden planks. She’d pulled back on her reins and her horse had reared, throwing her from the saddle. She had hit her shoulder hard as she’d tried to twist like Link had taught her, tried to minimise the damage of the fall, and she had been forced to roll toward the edge of the bridge to avoid the stallion’s panicked flailing. She’d been too close to the edge to begin with, she went right over, slipping beneath the thick wooden banisters and screaming in terror, she would have fallen if she hadn’t managed to grab some frayed rope supposedly keeping travellers safe by holding the rails secure. 

Link hand thrown himself from his still galloping horse long before she had screamed out. He had crossed the planks in almost no strides at all, flying to her side and sliding on his knees the last foot towards the edge of the bridge and flinging himself forward onto his belly. Leaning his head and shoulders off the edge of the bridge next her to reach down and grasp a fistful of her travelling shirt, hauling her upwards and helping her pull her weight back onto the bridge. She managed to pull herself up with the strength fear lends to the victims of near death experiences and froze on hands and knees, breathing in sobs and hair sticking to her face as the rain stuck it together in muted golden rivers. 

Link had sat up and grabbed her shoulder, shaking her out of her shock. And she had latched onto him. Sobbing and shaking, gripping his tunic and pushing her face into his chest. He had wrapped his arms around her instantly. Protocol and propriety be damned, he was as relieved to have her alive in his arms as she was to be crying into his tunic and both so afraid of what could have happened, almost happened. He had tightened his hold on her, wrapping her long wet blonde hair around his fist in a subconscious attempt to keep her from falling again, to solidify her safety. 

The large white stallion, cowed and repentant, head lowered and ears forward as he had slowly moved towards them, nosing at Link’s hand wrapped in her hair and her shoulder where it shook with diminishing sobs, had managed to break her out of her remaining fear. She had turned and shakily reached a hand up to his velvety nose, stroking and reassuring, the smell of his damp coat replacing the thin electric smell of racing heartbeats and fading screams. 

They hadn’t told her father what had happened after they had managed to get to their feet and slowly and quietly ride back, although he couldn’t remember why. They hadn’t told anyone. They hadn’t told anyone how they had raced and played like children without a care in the world, how they had clung to each other in the rain when their borrowed childishness morphed into real fear. 

Link hadn’t told anyone how holding her had felt so right and the thought of losing her had been the most scared he had ever been in his life. Link had stopped telling anyone anything, except her.

Except his Zelda. 

Link heaved a deep sigh. He hadn’t realised he had pushed his face into Sugar’s neck, breathing in the smell of grass and air and the wild that clings to those born from it, the stallion standing patiently as he gathered himself. Looking once more back over his shoulder at the bridge where he had almost lost her, and then almost lost his remaining link to her, he mounted Sugar and allowed the stallion his head, leaving him to go wherever he wanted at whatever speed he wanted and was pleased at the sudden cooperation and companionship, wondering if near death experiences were a surefire way of bonding.

He severely hoped not.

As guilty as he felt for rarely visiting Pumpkin, he just couldn’t bring himself to travel with anyone other than Sugar. They had grown so close, forming silent communication through facial expressions and body language. They rode day and night, covering the width and breadth of Hyrule together.

Moonlight would pick out the white of his coat and make it gleam, like he was made of stars, and he would remember lying on his back in the grass outside of his house with his father after a day of training, listening to his father talking about his days in the royal army and hardly being able to wait to grow older so he could have his turn. 

Sunlight picked out the gold in his mane and reminded him of Zelda’s hair, they way it shone so bright even on the dullest days, the way she never needed to be crowned when she wore her braid haloed around her head. When they tore across plains together he would imagine how much Zelda would love it, the freedom, the wind in her hair and the grass stains on her trousers. 

An endless cycle of night and day, an endless cycle of reliving his father teaching him to ride, and reliving his days teaching Zelda to ride. Although they had entirely different upbringings and histories, although they came together from different directions, they came together.

And although they could be as different as night and day, they would always follow each other. And he could feel in his gut, every time he looked toward the castle where the guiding light would shine for him, that that would never change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break in posting, uni and part time work are eating all of my time -_-
> 
> Leave me something nice if you liked it :)


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